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THE
ORCA KILLS THE SHARK by torpedoing into its belly from underneath,
causing the shark to blow up. When this Gothic fellow opens his
mouth, there is a shark inside. He has four rows of sharp teeth. He
rolls his eyes back white. We all lean over the table with hungry
eyes. He SNAPS his mouth shut and scares us and leans back, laughing
like Santa Claus.

“Hohoho!”

Someone
I don’t know laughs with him to be his friend.

“Heehaw!”

The
place is hot. Moist. Sticky. Dim. Everyone wears black for some
reason, but not in a racist way…at least I hope not. I haven’t
seen anyone yet with blond hair. Strange, dream-like music plays—not
what I expected in a Goth club (I expected hard-core, industrial,
German speed metal. Later, I find out that they DO play it. Just not
on “these” nights). Something invisible and thick hangs in the
air. Something is going to happen, but when? The suspense is a major
thumbs down for me, although I assume these folks get off on it. The
place is dirty – although it’s a strange, stylized dirtiness:
controlled dirtiness. I try to remember the name of this bleak place:
Galaxy or Neutrino or some other sci-fi-ish word.

Everyone
looks happy – everyone’s having a good time. I see these people
all the time at the mall, loitering outside of Longs Drugs. Mall
security is always waving a finger at them, chasing them here and
there while holding their jiggling belts. Taki hands me a bottle of
something: Looks like a vitamin bottle. It’s small. I unscrew the
cap and drink a taste.

Vodka.
A vodka and vitamin C shot. It’s good, but one is definitely not
enough. He opens his backpack and pulls out 3 more bottles and sets
them on the table, almost as if they were trophies. He examines the
empty bottle and I can barely make out his eyes behind his
vampire-shades. He leans in:

“Did
you drink all of this?”

“I
thought that was what you wanted me to do.”

He
laughs and continues unpacking his goods while bobbing and swaying to
the music.

It’s
so hot in here. My skin feels sticky. I sit alone on a couch (I hope
nothing dead is under these cushions), in a corner that has been
painted a thick black: The floor makes a sick, sticky sound when
people walk past. That’s the key word for tonight, sticky. There’s
a black-light, which means that passing white shoes glow. People in
black trench coats and black tights walk about, aimlessly, showing
off their threads to onlookers, doing that thing where they look over
their shoulder at you and wink. Everyone has a bottle of water. You
can’t bring water in a place like this…you must buy water at the
front. But you can bring in all the alcohol you want. Huzzah!

A
shortie and some tall white boy sit next to me. I don’t know how,
but I start chatting with this girl. It’s very unlike me, due to my
crippling shyness, so I assume those vitamin shots are kicking in.
She’s not beautiful, by my ignorant standards, but she looks nice,
and she is very friendly. She starts talking about her folks in
Russia and the music in the current, local Goth scene. She asks where
I’m from and I lie to seem more interesting.

“Russia.
I’m from Russia,” I scream over the loud music.

After
awhile, the man with the shark teeth arrives again and seems to be
passing me odd glances. He’s thin, tall, and has long,
blue-streaked hair. Lucky for me, he finds a friend to speak to
before throwing his attention at me. I mean, what the hell are we
going to talk about? The fluid dynamics of sharks? I’m a 1st time
visitor to this small, black place with the yellow painted nuclear
power sign out front. I don’t know the language. Yet.

I
can feel the dizziness coming on hard, and I start getting the dread.
I underestimated those deceitful shots. Someone walks by in the
distance. I hope it’s not who I think it is.

My
memory rewinds: It was.

Great.

It
was her, and I immediately feel depressed, and ugly, and
insignificant.

One
Hour Earlier...

EXT.
DOLE MOVIE THEATER – NIGHT

With
friends. Just finished seeing Cowboy Bebop. Great film – in parts,
anyway. See ex-girlfriend talking with movie promoter. Feelings of
depression, uselessness, suicide, guilt, and major ugliness. Taki
seems to notice, tries to make me feel better by complimenting my
horrendous, shorty-short haircut.

“You
need to go out and find someone to fuck.”

And
I say out of pre-panic attack: “Yessm.”

We
pick up his two female friends – dressed in black dresses, of
course (I feel out of place and uncool with my glasses and blue
jeans) – in downtown at something like 11pm, and speed away into
the night. I don’t speak to them. Or is it, they don’t speak to
me.

Stop
near Hawaii Culture Center and park on some dark, side road. The
night streets are busy. People jaywalk. I’m excited. This is crazy
goodness. I can’t wait to enter another universe. Maybe even a
place where people understand me and share my mental poop.

Taki
crosses the busy street towing two large, plastic Safeway bags of
liquor as a trolley honks. The driver shakes a mean fist, tourists
snapping bright pictures. The club’s entrance fee is a tad high for
our wallets and there’s some discussion about my lack of cash. I’m
too out of my mind to really be following any of this: Mind plagued
by noisy images from the annoying past. It turns out that
everything’s going to be okay somehow and we move ahead.

Taki
says with a smile – smiling to maybe soften the blow:

“Hey
look who it is...”

I
see who it is and my stomach punches me. I should’ve known. Taki
and her have similar tastes in clubs. Why didn’t I connect the dots
earlier! If he’s going to a club tonight, surely would she.

I
back up.

“Er...”

“Aw
come on, man, don’t be like that.”

“I’ll
just wait for you guys back at the car.”

“No,
no, you’re going to come inside and hang loose. And then we’re
going to find you some hot chick and get laid in spades.”

“I
didn’t realize it was that easy! But no.”

All
I hear as he yaps is her voice, saying over and over again, You’re
a loser; call me when you grow up.

I
imagine the sweet taste of alcohol and say: “Fine. Good.” I’ll
be fine so long as I stay low and hide in some dark corner, on a
suspiciously soft couch.

One
Hour Later...

This
couch is getting soft; I think I’m sinking into it. I take hold of
the glass vodka bottle with my wee, skinny hands and take a swig. I
remember then why I hate vodka. The stuff went down with a fight –
it wanted to come back up, the furnishings of my stomach too poor for
its liking. To be nice, I offer some to a girl that walks by. I don’t
say anything of course, I just hold up the bottle and smile. She
smiles back through those black-painted lips and says, “No thank
you, kind sir. Vodka gives me the toots.” I nod and she walks off,
vanishing into the dark.

I’m
determined to hold the alcohol down. I hate to waste anything. I
might as well be vomiting Taki’s money: Then what kind of a friend
would I be?

I
lean back.

That
couple is still here, chatting with Sharkman. A screwball kid with a
sledgehammer walks up to the table, which is actually a giant,
upturned wooden spool for industrial wire. He pounds his sledgehammer
on the table, rattling empty beer bottles. It’s obvious to me that
he does this for attention. His smile looks mean. No one cares, so he
does it again, smiling brightly. Someone says Hello and the kid moves
on.

Taki
calls me and we head outside.

It’s
noisy outside. Large groups of tall, white people lean against their
cars, giving me the stiff one-eye as we walk past. The music inside
the club tries desperately to free itself through the walls, sounding
muffled. A lot of people have on contact lenses: Red ones, white
ones, sometimes both. The glowing eyes are interesting. I feel so out
of place. I keep my eyes down as we walk.

What’s
a tiny white boy with glasses doing in a place where everyone wants
to be a vampire? Besides, I like mummies better.

Taki
walks me into an alleyway and we kneel between the front of a car and
a length of dangling chain that’s blocking off a parking lot. A
swinging sign on the chain reads DO NOT ENTER.

Taki
reaches into his waist-cut, Matrix-looking, pleather jacket and pulls
out what looks to me like a large, glass kazoo filled with The
Buddha, aka marijuana. I’m shocked. That’s a lot of green. The
whole thing is filled. More of who I assume to be Taki’s friends
pop up…so many eventually, that there’s enough of us to make a
cute circle. Odd how no one even makes on effort to introduce
themselves. There’s something unsettling about that – there’s
something unsettling about Taki’s buddies in particular: As if they
just don’t give a damn about anything, even if they got run over by
a truck-load of Hawaiian pigs.

All
they want to do is smoke The Thigh and be lost in their little,
tripped-out world.

There
are some girls with us. All not very attractive. They seem rather
dirty and lost. I like what they’re wearing, though: Gothic, black
dresses…I’m reminded of Interview with the Vampire for some
reason. I wonder if these people work at Taco Bell or Dip N’ Dots.

Everyone
seems to be dazed out of their minds, and we haven’t even tongued
the dung yet, if you catch my drift. Taki’s young, male friend (a
brown-skinned chubby, showing off an Iron Maiden shirt) puts the
glass tube to his lips and sticks a lighter down the grassy hole. He
inhales, eyes growing huge, and the grass filaments light up like
electrical wires. He passes it down the line – the girls try –
another tries (are these people magically materializing?) – a heavy
girl tries – and then it comes to me. I don’t want to look like a
goof, so I try (other tries have ended in pity and shame. It’s no
fun when the people you’re doing it with are trying their damndest
NOT to feel the effects). I do the motions right, but for some reason
Taki’s friend says that I’m doing it wrong, and helps me. I’m
grateful, but boy do I feel the eyes on me. I assume that they all
think I’m some kind of Narc.

Everyone
laughs. It was a joke, of course, just for attention. I’m
disgusted. I look around to see everyone a bit more talkative and
weird. At this point, abortions are a joke. Time escapes me. My limbs
have no feeling. I start to wonder what would happen if a cop caught
us. These yahoos probably wouldn’t even care.

I’m
a bit envious. I’m depressed again and feel so out of freakin’
place. Who are these people? Where am I? I want something from Jack
in the Box; have to remember to ask Taki to stop there after we leave
this curious place.

These
people are laughing. Is it at me? Would I even be surprised? Calm
down. Taki is just saying something funny about old times with old
friends...I laugh to be nice...mouth numb…my giggle tumbles out
with a 1-second delay...arms feel like their spinning when they’re
not…meat tingling just below the skin...I’m afraid that someone
who works in one of the nearby stores will see us and call the
fuzz...Come on, Taki, get your jollies and let’s go back inside
before the cops come! Did I only think that, or did I say it?...They
laugh – not looking at me, so maybe I just thought it. Taki stands,
so I stand, confident. My head spins. I can tell that Taki is not
immune to these hideous effects as well. It’s comforting to know.
We walk past tall white guys – beefy thick arms able to break my
neck if they wanted to. I see a goofy, human male, wearing spiked
wristbands and a spiked neckband with a spiked doggie leash and
spiked thighbands and anklebands, showing off his butterfly
knife-dancing skills in front of a group of redheaded girls in black
corsets. They seem to be ignoring him as they kiss each other in a
bored way. All except for one disturbing girl: A large girl with a
blue Mohawk, wearing a shiny, black trench coat and Goth slippers.
She stares at him like a hungry wolf. Her hands are in her dress,
moving around in circles.

I
try with all I’ve got to walk straight. I feel like an idiot. I
arrive.

I
close my eyes for a second. Try to control this mental, washing
machine. Get a grip, man. Righty-O. I can do this. I’m strong. I’m
a Virgo.

I
open them:

What
just happened?

There
are at least five people on the couch now. Did I fall asleep? Can’t
be. I’d know, right?? I look around in a frown, confused: Make eye
contact with a young, black man. He’s thin and nicely dressed.
Seems harmless enough. Wait, is he saying something to me? I lean in
through the thick music and open my mouth:

“Huh?”

“Srjpir-0hoj3efkan.”

“WHAT.”

“Toot
toot dingus frandj.”

“Oh.”

“I’m
from the base,” he says, smiling. Pearl Harbor. Military.”

“Oh!
Just relaxing, huh?”

He
nods, happy that I understand him. I lean back and shut my eyes again
because I’m dead inside: Last thing I see is this nice soldier boy,
leaning forward with his hands in prayer between his knees, looking
down and about to go into some surely, dreary life story. I want to
hear it, just so I don’t hurt his feelings. But…

My
eyes are heavy.

They
close.

I
open them.

I’M
ALONE.

Did
everyone just vanish suddenly? The music is different, too. Softer.
Still moody, not surprisingly. Sad sad Emo music. Poo-poos my soul. I
realize now that all this “sad” music is giving me the mopes.
People in the murky distance, who look like Gothic Nuns, give me
final glances as they float down mysterious hallways like toys on
wheels. I look to my left. Good Lord! Someone’s sitting next to me,
leaning on me even: Sweaty scalp on my shoulder. It’s the chubby
girl from outside, one of them anyway: Taki’s pale that smoked with
us. I’m too dizzy to try and wake her up. I need to use the
bathroom. My bladder is mean. My back feels like my front. My eyes
are biting me. My legs are kicking themselves. My neck feels bloated.
Things in my stomach want to fly out from my mouth. Damn. I can’t
do it. I can’t hold down my own cherries.

This
is pathetic.

I
close my eyes – maybe the world will change again and cease
tumbling over itself and she’ll be off of me.

2
seconds later (or at least what consciously feels like 2 seconds
later) I open my face – eyeballs rolling while I groan in belly
pains. It feels like I’m vomiting out my eyes. The girl next to me
is awake. She’s moving around, doing something. Objects before my
eyes are soft, unfocused, floating in the air, spinning in place.

“Ooooooooh…”
I hear, very close to my bad ear.

I’m
too ill to look at her, but I can see her in the corner of my right
eye. She’s saying something again. Her arm is around mine, holding
on for grim life. I see an image: We must look like an odd pair, like
something out of Jerry Springer. A chubby girl and a thin fool, arm
in arm, sitting alone on a couch, both gone totally sideways and
inside out. She starts kissing my throat. I’m only slightly
shocked.

And
then I see something that makes my heart faint and the hairs on my
arms flail about.

“Blood
in stool,” I say, cursing my luck.

I
see my ex walking toward me. I can’t keep my eyes open. It’s as
if she’s popping in and out of reality as she grins toward us. She
says something to the girl around my arm, calls her by name. Not
good, I think to myself. I don’t know why it isn’t good, but it
isn’t. Jesus, does she know everybody here?

Ex
to me: (brightly) “Hi!”

Me:
(trying as hard as I can to sound normal) “…ello.”

Ex:
“It’s really good to see you here!”

Why
don’t I believe her? Sounds sarcastic.

Me:
“Thanks! I saw you at the movies earlier.”

Did
I say that right? I hope I didn’t stutter like I always do.

She
says more, but unfortunately, it all skates over my glazed eyes. I’m
trying really hard to remember her face, but even that takes too much
concentration. My heart is a skydiver, yanking on the ripcord wildly,
shrieking, “Where’s the parachute!?”

She
leans in, smiling in a wrong way.

Ex:
“It’s-really-good-to-see-you-here.”

It’s
like she’s talking to a child – came near to sounding like a
laugh. She walks away, probably went home to mentally vomit the pile
of drunkenness known as Me.

Is
she really glade to see me?

I
hope so.

Heart:
“Of course not, idiot.”

Girl:
“I don’t think she likes me.”

And
then she runs her tongue into my ear.

I
barely notice, thinking of other images. The past seems so inviting.

I
know – God I know – that I’ll remember all of this in the
morning, and it will throw the next 5 months into the old, emotional
meat grinder.

I
lean back wanting Taki to take me home, and close my eyes again as
the tongue in my ear vibrates.

2
Years Ago...

I’m
with my X and her gay pal at a Goth club called The Dungeon, on
Halloween, near airport. There’s a long line. As you can imagine,
this is an important day, and we’ve got backstage passes (later
we’ll learn they were useless). She gives the fat man at desk our
tickets. They seem to know each other. He studies my ID and thinks
nothing of me: “Looks like anyone else.”

Why
even say such a thing?

Asshole.

I
feel ugly but keep up the façade. At least act like it doesn’t
bother you. You’ve been acting on public access for over 5 years,
acting shouldn’t be a problem. My friends try to cheer me up by
saying: “You’re so handsome, you’re so pretty.”

Pretty??
Is that supposed to make me feel better? I laugh, and we head inside.
A naked man wearing a tight leather mask with a zipper mouth is on a
wooden, mini stage, tied to cross. A woman tugs on his penis with
pliers while hunched over and scanning the area, grinning. I expected
myself to be thoroughly appalled, but instead I am moderately
interested. It helps that the “slave” seems to be enjoying this
odd “act”. We move to the rear of this wondrous place.

There
are bottles of Zima everywhere: On vibrating speakers, the ground, in
the bathroom, the tables. We just stand in the back, outside under
the moonglow, looking in. My girlfriend gyrates to the music. I touch
her back and she feels it...smiles...and I feel so lucky. I feel very
very very lucky and normal. We go back in and she scolds me for
drinking a stranger’s discarded Zima bottle. I’m told that I
could get hepatitis or something. They’d know, surely, both being
in the medical field.

I’m
embarrassed at the scolding. That’s what I get for trying to look
cool. Like, “Hey, look at me drinking some stranger’s bottle of
beer! I don’t care, since I’m so hard!”

Come
to think of it, that was pretty stupid of me.

We
stick toilet paper in our ears to soften the pounding bass. Now we’re
dancing. I feel like an idiot. No one seems to care though, and soon
enough I’m too drunk to care as well. The female DJ is topless. My
girlfriend’s homosexual friend is dancing shirtless. My girlfriend
grazes her fingers across his sweaty, muscular chest. I do the
same…WHAT AM I DOING?? Get a grip, man. Don’t start going
sideways on me now.

I’m
just jealous that she touched his muscles (at least I hope I’m just
jealous). I’m such a child.

Later,
we’re by a staircase that’s painted black. She speaks with an
older, white fellow, looks like he has money and a decent job, but
ugly-ass hair. I grow jealous. Next to him, I look like a 16-year-old
with far away dreams.

I
don’t want her talking with him. I KNOW what he’s thinking. I
know what he’s thinking! I wanna kill him! Did mention she was
wearing a black leotard?

Uhg.

Not
thirty minutes later, we’re in her SUV with her homosexual pal at
the wheel. I have no idea where we’re going. We end up in a place
in Waikiki called Fusions. I only see men in this place. There’s
happy, techno music and many platforms below us to dance on. There
are a lot of tiny, happy lights. Is that a disco ball? Nice people
here. One fellow buys me a Cosmopolitan, and it’s good.

My
girl/woman stands over a railing, looking down on barren platforms
that move in disco lights. Must be a slow night. I stand next to her,
dazzled by all these lights. She’s pretty…looks a little saddened
by some mysterious problem. I touch the small of her back and she
says, quite suddenly: “No, I don’t like that. Not here.”

I
catch my breath.

Yeesh.
I was just trying to be romantic.

I
retreat to the bar and hope some fool buys me another drink.

Doesn’t
happen.

That
night we argue in the kitchen: Trust me, love me, free me, have
make-up sex with me.

I’m
growing increasingly afraid of her. Does she love me, really? One day
I’m going to get hurt in a bad way, I can feel it.

Watch
out.

2
Years Later...

I
open my eyes: The girl has vanished – thank the Lord. Taki is here
with his friends (their faces are blurred – as if I’m looking
through some cheap JVC camera). I stand and make my way into the
bathroom, eyes low to the crazy ground. CORNER OF EYES: The dance
floor is empty, save for lone dancer male. Is he dancing, or having a
vertical seizure?

BATHROOM.

Man
pisses...I make my way to the urinal...so close now...BURST OF NAUSEA
RUNS UP MY BELLY AND INTO MY BRAIN.

I
hope my black shirt’s not wet. It is, all around the right side. It
better be water. My face is in the sink, hands helping me. Water
blasting: Cold...splashed onto my face.

“Are
you okay?”

For
some reason, I mumble:

“…xoowh…my
name is Bomb…qiff-93-yaw…my name is Rrrrr…daoc-super 3-a….”
(or did I just think it?)

There’s
a popping sound in my ears – feet dancing on bubble wrap.

Sledgehammer
punk is at my side, splashing water continuously into my face and
repeating: “Are you sure, are you sure, are you sure?” I think:
Please Lord, pound him with the Fist of God. Someone hands me my
glasses (I don’t put them on) and I hear fats say, “Sorry, dude,
but you gotts ta go.” He sounds genuinely concerned. I head
outside...and…they’re following me, aren’t they? (no) And
judging me, and eyeing me out, giving me the stiff one-eye: Staring
at meeeeeeee!!!! (no, no one’s following you)

Where’s
Taki? Keep walking...don’t make eye contact with anyone. A few
years from now, no one will remember this.

Really?

No.

Fireworks
go off over my shoulder, and I’m shook-up for a good 3 seconds.
Where’s the fuckin car? Taki’s car? I don’t see it. What time
is it? Don’t wait for him, boy. Take the bus.

I’m
a good length away from the club. Good. I sit at the bus stop and get
up abruptly and vomit on a fence. I’m impressed by the volume of my
regurgitation. I feel sooo much better. I smile at myself, and nod my
head in approval. I hope passing cars don’t honk at me and laugh.
I’m at the wrong bus stop. I cross the street to the other one, and
lay back and close my eyes. My head isn’t spinning anymore. Think
back on bathroom: Feelings of anger. I know that everything happens
for a reason. This is no exception. All proper emotions...much to
learn from this. And what did I learn? Trust your gut. I shouldn’t
have gone out after that movie: I should’ve gone home, home, home.
I’m really angry with that one guy. I hate feeling this way. What
kind of human being feels so much anger toward a fellow human? A bad
one. I’m bad. I’m bad and ugly and disgusting and disgusted at
myself and so very skinny that my mum makes fun of me and looks at me
in repulsion many times when I walk past her while she watches the
Filipino channel. My eye hurts. Is there a pebble inside?? It really
hurts. I cry, which is the body’s natural way of washing out
unwanted articles.

There
must be some kind of nodule under my eyelid. I bet it’s because of
that damn weed. I should check my medical dictionary when I get home.

My
bus arrives. I go in and lean against a window, covering tears of
extreme PAIN due to my shit eye. Must be around 4am, since buses
don’t start up ‘til around this time. I take the long walk home
and lay in bed, praying that my eye will feel better in the morning.

“Broken
Surfboards & Ugly Rent”

HOLLYWOOD
HAS FED you a major lie. Hawaii has fed you a major lie. We don’t
all surf. We don’t all enjoy wearing slippers. We don’t all live
in the North Shore. I was born & raised here and I’ve never
even BEEN to that side of the island.

What
many humans across the globe don’t know is that Honolulu, the heart
of Oahu, is a city with a taste for the modern and the sophisticated
and the glam.

I
wouldn’t be surprised if many still think we have goddamn volcanoes
everywhere that go off in a panic every 5 seconds.

People
are ignorant. They’re told what to expect of us and they don’t
ask questions for some disturbing reason. It’s because they want to
believe the fantasy, I’m sure. Believe in The Fake Hawaii. Yay.

And
the majority of Hawaii is happy with it, seeing how we feed off the
tourists. So nothing changes. They’re happy with how things are.
Just fine and dandy. Because it’s what humans all over the
wonderful world want, right? They want to believe this dribble. They
see the postcards, the commercials of women dancing in grass skirts.
They want to come to a paradise that’s away from the computers and
the automo-biles and the “Interweb” and every fancy doodad and
nasty, dagnabbit contraption. Like automatic doors.

This
is why the typical tourist visits here, wearing irritating-to-see,
rattan hats and unflattering shorts. But what they see are kids
dressed as gangsters and old people wearing Gucci and little girls
carrying Toki Doki bags. “Yeesh,” they think, unbuttoning their
Hawaiian shirt. “Why does it feel like I never left home?”

Oahu
has always been modern…up with the times.

There
are plans for a monorail.

Rent
is skyrocketing up the ying-yang.

The
bus has jacked up the fare for adults from $1 to $2, and complain
about how their jobs are more “dangerous” than cops'. Very good.
I’ve yet to see a bus driver stop a speeding bullet with a dive.
Driving a bus more dangerous than being a cop?

The
island is changing.

I
look around today and see five construction cranes all huddled
together. More condos. More people. More cars. Possible monorail
(which won’t solve the traffic problem…won’t take the CARS off
the roads).

Hollywood
and Hollywood Hawaii can’t live the lie for very much longer. Soon
the world will see Oahu as it really is: A mini-version of Cali. Or,
and this is just my wish, a mini-version of Japan. God, I love that
place.

For
now, outsiders will see Oahu like they see Rednecks. In any case, if
one still desires for the good ol’ days…there’s always Maui.

There’s
a mysterious number on the caller ID. Uh oh. Did I give my number out
last night? Hope not. Sheesh. If YES, then I hope it was to someone
whose ying yang hasn’t gone topsy turvy.

Whoever
this strange caller is, called 25 times. Warren and I take the #1 bus
to Honolulu Community College. During lunch I wait for him outside
the library.

I’m
not sure, but I think the chubby girl from last night walks past,
dressed in black. Should I say hi? She did stick her tongue in my
ear.

Naw.

Doubt
she even remembers me. We make eye contact. Then she looks away, not
seeing anything of interest. I suddenly feel pathetic. Did I take my
St. John’s Wort this morning for my Social Anxiety Disorder? Think
so. To feel better, I remind myself that I have friends.

I
wanna go back to that dingy Goth club. Not sure why. Guess it seems
like a haunted house: I might find something exciting.

Besides,
I might find something interesting on the ground, like a used condom
or a dead crab or nasty panties or a troll or maybe even forgotten
weed. If I did, I’d smoke it alone in my room: In a controlled
environment, haha.

I’d
be safe, exploring the club during the day.

There’ll
be no one there.

They
only use the place every once in a good while (I think every other
Friday, or something like that).

Hmm…where’s
Warren?

Sure
is taking a long time. Maybe he’s making friends with that graphic
design teacher, the one we call Mr. Rogers. I hope he didn’t get in
the middle of a fight with his goofy school chums: A tall black guy
and a Japanese husky guy. I don’t know why they can’t just get
along. How hard is it to just chill out? Last time our Japanese pal
got so mad at our black photographer friend that he punched a
wall…came back the next day with a cast and everything. Pity, the
things children do.

I
check my watch, which I keep in my bag and never wear because it just
hangs off my thin wrist, embarrassed of me. Where is he? Maybe class
dragged on a bit.

So
I walk to the design building to greet him, and as I do so, I feel
eyes on me. And I start to get the Fever: Are those girls, sitting on
that bench, looking at me? They laugh. Are they laughing at ME now?
Grr… I don’t know!

Silence,
brain, silence.

Brain:
Ok, ok, can I at least smoke a cigarette later?

Me:
“That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”

A
janitor, riding a golf cart full of trash cans, stops suddenly and
all the trash cans go flying out. The girls scream in a laughing way
and scurry off, just watching and whispering as the smiling janitor
cleans his filth.

I
look away and take a step…and walk into a wall. Is someone crying?
It’s the chubby girl from the other night (or this morning). She
says she remembers me. I ask if she’s okay. She goes into a long
story of how her mum scolded her when she got home. When she jumped
in the shower, she noticed there were hickies all over her left arm –
from the shoulder down to her pinky.

Did
I do that, I thought?

Gross
me out.

She
proceeds with her tale:

Then
her mum found an Aspirin bottle full of weed and all Hades broke ass.
Her mum turned into a werewolf and kicked at the stove and broke it.
The oven door fell off. She picked it up and spanked her daughter
with it…slow, heavy hits cutting the air – woosh woosh.

This
Japanese mother, who can’t speak English very well, was shrieking,
“No mo waking up at the crack of ass! No mo waking up at the crack
of ass!”

I
feel for the girl.

Beware
the Japanese temper.

Aside
from boyfriends that bruise their girlfriends (or vice versa), the
one thing I will not tolerate is a parent that attacks their child.
That’s a nono in my book-o.

When
she tells me that her mum ran into the room crying and whipped out ye
old samurai sword, I flip – my mouth just hits the grass, like
WOMP.

I
repeated what she said for dramatic effect.

“She
got out the family blade? That’s heinous.”

Her
mum attacked her. Chased her daughter with it. They both ran through
the house – up and down the place – shrieking hideousities.
Upstairs, the daughter jumped into the baby room and locked herself
in the bathroom while her infant sister, House, cried on a dead
mechanical baby-swing.

The
mum kicked the door down. She chopped down the bathroom door in 2
amazing blows and the daughter retreated to the bathtub, barking like
a dog to try and scare her away.

As
punishment for being “disobedient” and weird, this mother cuts
her back. Chubby girl turns around lifting her shirt and shows me and
the sight makes me want to cry. She says that she needs my help. I
ask her, “What do you need?”

She
wants to runaway to her cousin’s apartment, near Waipahu Racquet,
but she has to go home first to get some clothes. She’s afraid to
go there alone. There’s a good chance that the mum will be home,
seeing how she doesn’t work and lives on government checks because
she got injured on the job, working as a phone operator at Sprint.

I
look at my watch.

We’re
on Dillingham right now.

She
lives behind Kalakaua Intermediate.

Warren
should be out soon.

The
housing behind the school is silent. The sun blasts. When she jiggles
the key into the lock, panic sets in. What am I doing? Am I drunk?

I
should turn around right now!

So
we sneak into the place and go up into her bedroom where she throws
her stuff into a garbage bag. As we leave and reach the middle of the
stairs, we see the mum below us, sword in hand.

She
has crazy eyes.

She
says something to her daughter in a very snake-like way, in Japanese,
softly. She spits on the ground. The daughter answers in English, “I
can do what I want, Mommy. I’m an adult. I’m 16.”

The
mum’s face turns sad and wrinkles and tilts a little as she makes a
scary whining sound.

Then
she whispers a word that I do understand: “Baka,” which means
idiot. The frightening thing is that she’s looking at me when she
says it.

The
mum SHRIEKS a samurai’s shriek and runs up the stairs in little,
quick steps – sword tailing behind her. We run back up. I trip and
fall. Chubs grabs the back of my shirt and picks me up with one hand,
throws me into the air and onto the landing. I belly-slide over the
wooden floor and SLAM into a wall like a bowling ball screaming
through a strike.

I
can see into the baby room.

The
child is sleeping on the swing, drooling. Only this time the swing is
working.

Mother
& daughter run toward each other – screaming while not avoiding
a single step on the staircase. They mum swings the sword down on
this chubby girl. Chubs is quick as a cat. She flies her hands up and
slaps her palms around the blade, holding it inches from her brow.
The mum pushes down, face nuts. They twirl, both of them holding onto
the sword. Someone takes a wrong step and they both take a little
tumble down the stairs and roll right out the open door. The sword
flies out of their hands and spins through the air and lands into the
grass with a SHEENK, swaying back and forth. The sun – as if on cue
– screams out from behind a cloud. The street is busy. Mother and
daughter have a kick fight and a fist parade on the front lawn.

The
police arrive. I suppose, as I watch the fight in awe, that someone
heard all the screaming and phoned the fuzz.

I
yell out, “Jiggers, the fuzz!”

Mum
and daughter cry as they fight. The mum punches her daughter on the
cheek and it sounds like a loud, wet slap.

Before
the Honolulu Police Department can even get out of their fancy black
Mustangs, the mum does a baseball dive for the sword. All of a
sudden, HPD moves like God pressed fast-forward on his remote
control.

The
mum waves the sword at them and says something nasty in Japanese. The
cops – two Japanese men, a white woman, and a string-bean Filipino
male – try to calm the lady down, holding out their hands and
saying sweet things to her.

The
white officer offers her candy and begs her forth. The skinny
Filipino cop tells the Japanese cops to talk to the nuts-O, but they
shrug and don’t know how to speak Japanese.

The
chubby daughter begs her mum to calm down. I hold her back, away from
the bad news bears.

The
mum makes the error of taking a swing at the fuzz, and they all take
out their guns and shoot her in the kneecaps. She goes down with an
“Aieeeeeeeee!” and they wrestle the old cuffs on her.

Everyone’s
yelling something to someone.

Onlookers
clap.

Many
cars have pulled over, holding up traffic to watch, sitting on their
car hoods, sipping sodas and chatting on cell phones. I can feel the
Camera flying away, pulling back to reveal the scene as we Fade to
Black and the credits roll over classical music…

When
the police take the chubby girl and her mum away, I’m already gone
– snaked away from the scene during the wild mess.

I
make it a point with myself to hightail it back to HCC and meet with
Warren. Can't be late. He hates that.

I
step into the elevator and go to the 3rd floor. There’s a girl
standing with me in this yellow painted elevator.

She’s
ugly.

I
mentally punch myself in the gut for thinking such evil thoughts.

The
elevator opens and I walk down the cold hallway. The walls are lined
with “Art” behind glass, of handprints and abstract blots. I pick
up a discarded newspaper off the floor – The Honolulu Advertiser –
and read the headline.

THE
DOLPHIN MASTERS STRIKE AGAIN!

Apparently,
there are these Save The Dolphins! enthusiasts, The Dolphin Masters.
They believe that tourists AND local people pollute the oceans and
aid in the purposeful extermination of all dolphins. They believe
that THEY’RE the reincarnation of dolphins, and that humans are
simply jealous of their large brains. A criminal psychologist on the
morning news once said, “The worst thing we can do is underestimate
them. They may be plotting a world-wide takeover, for crying out
loud.”

Today
– in the wee moon hours of the morning – they jumped a young
couple carrying surfboards, hitting them with electric guitars.
Witnesses say the same bizarre thing in identifying these horrible
people:

“They
were wearing these bright blue, full-body dolphin costumes…”

Yeesh.

These
people are worst than the Mirovingian Vampires that prowl the streets
at night in Waikiki, sucking people’s gore.

I
don’t think I’ll come back next semester. I like the class –
love the cool teacher – but I feel like I’m wasting my time. I
could be working on my writing. That feels much more productive. The
problem is that I KNOW what I want to do with my life. No need to
take class after class, hoping for a revelation of my future. I know
what I want. Which can also be a problem. Because you end up not
wanting to do anything else. It’s not that you’re lazy. You just
would focus on your craft – what you love – and work hard at it –
rather than working a 9-5 job folding clothes and getting spat on by
customers from the mainland.

Warren’s
class is silent.

It’s
dark inside.

It’s
a computer room. The monitors all look like portals to some bright,
happy dimension. I can her Mr. Rogers yapping, saying something about
“layers” and “RGB” and “pasting”. Is he talking about new
birth control methods? I realize that he’s talking about the
photo-editing program Photoshop. My ears hurt from all the technical
talk. I’ve neglected using the Left side of my brain for so long
now.

I
see Warren sitting near the door, almost spilling out into the
hallway. He sits with his head resting on his palm, other hand moving
the mouse around in tiny circles. Why does he put himself through
this shite? It’s always hard for me to watch: Heartbreaking, even.

That’s
it.

I’m
not coming back next semester.

Warren
and I meet up with his father in the parking lot, and he takes us to
our dart competition, at a bar across the street called Se LeVi.
Being in a dart league does nothing for my self-esteem. Each time I
miss a target, each time I miss a bull’s eye, I can feel the eyes
of my captains, Warren & Dave, whipping my spine with thick wet
noodles.

And
it hurts like a mother.

It’s
always the same. You see the same people. Samoans and Hawaiians
laughing so loud, glass breaks and wood splinters. Team members call
each other assholes if one of them misses an important throw, and
bitches if they DO hit something! And that’s just the women.

It’s
all in good fun.

As
long as you’re drunk.

I
once tried flirting with one of our competitors. She was older, and
taken by another (one of the best – but not much liked – dart
players).

This
was at another bar, Emerald City, across from the Neal Blaisdell
Center Concert Hall – here you can see Wrestling shows and Opera
and concerts. I saw Metallica there once. Good times, especially when
people you don’t know hand you hard liquor.

She
was sitting at the bar, singing karaoke, and I would’ve made my
move…but I was too drunk. Instead, I would speed-walk occasionally
into the restroom and puke something awful into the toilet. Later, as
Warren’s dad drove down the freeway at 12 in the morning, I threw
up in the back-bed of his red pickup truck. But I didn’t want my
hideous filth all over his truck, so I puked in my hands, and then
tossed the mess overboard and onto passing cars. There was a puddle
on the back-bed, so I smeared it here and there because I thought
that would help it dry up quicker.

This
is how I play darts.

These
are my league nights.

Really,
I come here to drink and take shots of whatever whenever, because I
wanna be a part of the Laugh Pack. Just not too many 151 shots,
please, oh please.

I
am relieved each night it’s over. These things usually go on for
2-3 months, with us playing once a week on Thursdays (note: Nowadays,
the other guys play 3-4 times a week). I love darts but I loathe
playing in leagues! I don’t like being told when to do things. I
wanna play when I feel like it. I can’t take the stress of
competition. I can’t play, I say, okay? No way!

But
there are good nights, though. This one happened AFTER a darts night:

To
cheer me up, a pal (who shall remain nameless, and who hates me now
because I’m an idiot) and I hop into his truck and drive to DHV. It
looks like your ordinary video store, but step inside, my friend, and
walk to the right, for here there be much porn, indeed.

The
first thing that hits me is how bright the place is. It’s a rat
maze of porn. A labyrinth. I expect to cut a corner and see David
Bowie playing with a tiny, crystal ball.

I
have never been here before, and I am shocked by the quantity – yet
impressed by the quality of the products. Equally surprising, is the
amount of Adult Cinema knowledge my friend has. He’s like the
freakin’ scholar of porn. He knows exactly what he wants, and
exactly where to go. I, on the other hand, find myself a tad
uncomfortable. I see a young couple “reading” the back of a DVD
box. They look at me – I quickly turn away and look at some crazy
box covers. The couple walks past me, laughing. Are they laughing at
me?! WHY? It’s because I look 14, I know it! Well, I’m not! I’m
25! Bastids.

I
don’t want to be with people here.

Alone
time, please.

I
wish I had donkey eyes. The placement of a donkey's eyes enables it
to see all four of its feet at once. If I had that super power, I
could see anyone laughing at me behind my back. And I’d whip around
and point and go AHA! Laughing at me, are you??

One
title that sticks to my mind in particular is Mother Makes my
Entrance Wider with Devices.

I
walk into the animal fantasies section and back up like a warehouse
truck, “Beep beep beep”. I pick up a VHS. The cover is black. I
hold it in my hands. Don’t turn it over. Don’t do it, son, you’ll
regret it! I close my eyes and flip the box over. I’ll open my eyes
very – oh so very! – slowly. If I see a hint of anything
disgusting that’ll turn my eyes black, I’ll put it away.

So
I open my eyes so very slowly and…

…see
nothing but yellow.

So
the front of the VHS is black while the back is yellow. Very
mysterious. But also very good news for me. I don’t want to see any
kind of animal sex. Ha! Although, it was exciting expecting to see
it. That, I’ll never understand. Why do I want to see something I
DON’T want to see?

Meh!

To
be human.

I
explore the area further. I see panties that you can eat, as well as
condoms; dildos ranging from the size of a pinky to the size of an
arm; candy shaped as you-know-whats; and underground magazines from
The Honolulu Mongoose to Fat Girls Urinating Local Style. I bypass
the homosexual area by putting my hand to the side of my face, and
come to a long line.

It’s
an autograph session…for someone named Diamond Head.

Hmph,
I say under my breath. Must be a local porn star.

Because
I don’t have my glasses on, I have to squint to get a good look at
her “features”. I’d walk to the front of the line, but I’m
afraid of angering all these women – Yessm, that’s right, women.
It’s been said that women purchase more pornography than men. They
all seem anxious, and I don’t want them mad because I don’t want
my piss blown in. One of the women looks over her shoulder and tells
the lady behind her that she just creamed her undies, she’s so
excited.

I
turn so I can find my pal and tell him the news, when suddenly
there’s a ruckus. A woman with a heavy pigeon (local) accent raves.

“I
no understand why you gotta come to my island and try dominate. Why
you no can stay in Maui? I get kids, too, you know! I gotta support
my family! And feed my kids foods!”

Her
friend backs away, fearful. “No, Tasty, no. Not like this.”

The
other women circle Diamond Head, as if to protect her from any sudden
movements made by dear Tasty. The porn star stays in her seat, hands
folded neatly on the table. I can see that some of the women already
have fists for hands. Diamond Head SLAMS HER HAND ON THE TABLE –
all jump back in awe.

“DON’T
CHALLENGE ME!”

For
a second Tasty is shocked. She then gets herself together and jabs a
stick-like finger into Diamond’s chest.

“You
goat.”

Diamond
grabs her hair and the two go at it gorilla style – banging into
the walls and making a mess – the other women cheer and hoot and
hiss and spit. My pal stands over my shoulder, his face nothing but
two wide eyes. People are screaming behind the walls of porn,
“Emergency! Emergency!” The women are knocking down whole walls,
hands on throats, kicking each other in the gut. Diamond had those
pointy, metal heels and kicked with her eyes shut tight with rage.

Blood
guns out from under Tasty’s dress and splats on the floor. They
both fall and I can see a large purple gash in Tasty’s upper thigh.

She
reaches under her skirt and flings a handful of yellow in Diamond’s
face. The security guard takes the girls away, proudly.

My
pal buys what he needed (3 DVDs at $29.99 each) and we both have a
good laugh in the truck. Then we speak about darts and I tell him how
much I hate it now. I’m in a slump. I use to be good – not really
good – but good enough. Now I can’t even throw a fit. What the
F’s the matter with me? I can’t clear my mind. My brain is so
polluted with filth that I’m throwing tuna. My dart games are a
mess. I see better games in my stool.

I
have access to the best advice from all the grand masters on the
island. One of the grand masters, at Scores, tried to help me. He
changed my throw and everything – “Throw faster,” “Stand this
way” – and it fucked me up like something weird. I’m hopeless.
Not even a grand master blaster can release the pressure. Not even
the Dart God can resurrect my game from the Darts Graveyard.

“The
Black Building”

THE
SUN’S PUNCHY. The street’s busy and yelling. What time is it now?
2:3o pm. Work was easy. Hopefully, I can save enough money to go
skydiving. Once I do that, I can rest with the dead. Crash &
Burn. Fall & Bounce. The End.

When
I die I want my funeral to be outdoors, and I want the theme song
from The Exorcist playing in the background on a loop and on a large
television screen shall play my favorite movie/book Fear &
Loathing in Las Vegas. My friend Brandy will tell everyone to stand
and do a handstand because I think handstands are funny and everyone
will do it because I’m dead and they feel bad.

I
wish to be put into a coffin made of crystal and shaped like an
amazing penis. It shall be lowered vertically, via crane, into the
vagina-disguised grave, then raised, then lowered again, then raised
again. This goes on for an hour, while everyone – still doing
handstands – hops about here and there.

I
stand outside the gothic stronghold, this black building – I don’t
even know what it’s called. I thought it was Nortuary. I think it’s
actually Galaxy.

Why
do you tourists wear all that shite anyway? Is it any more
comfortable than dressing good and looking attractive?

I
wipe the sweat from my brow.

Cars:
“Honk-honk!”

Trucks:
“Beep-Beep!”

Crosswalk
signal: “Click click click!”

(You
see, I don’t know how it is in other parts of the world, but in
Hawaii, our signals click to inform the deaf that it’s ok to cross;
actually, in Japan it’s more creative: Their crosswalks play a cute
little tune!)

I
see a person dressed as Batman, sitting at a bus stop. He is wearing
slippers, and he smells like a bum. We make eye contact and I look
away quick as a cat because I’m shy.

Half
hidden behind a long fence that’s covered by a ratty black cloth,
the black building looks so out of place – tucked away from the law
offices and convenient stores and the Hawaii Convention Center and
the Hard Rock Cafe. There are some trees loitering behind the little
black building. Waikiki’s not so far off from here. I might walk
there later at night and oogle at the pretty Japanese tourists.

I
begin planning my day: Check out Black Building. Go to Hawaiian
Brian's (a video arcade/pool hall/darts place) and work on my dart
game with my other dart friends (who my main dart friends hate).
Sheesh! Can’t we just get along?

Also,
there’s someone there that I like, so that’s a plus. So she’s
seeing someone else. Is it a crime to at least see her, I ask you? As
you can see, I feel guilty for thinking this way. But that ain’t
gonna stop me - Ha!

I
walk past the shitty fence. It’s weird seeing the building so
empty. It looks so dead. There are some of those giant spool/tables
and bundles of extension cord. No cars; no people. Nothing else but a
light coconut-lotion scent hangs in the air.

I
look around and, stepping over a diaper, walk to the door.

It’s
unlocked.

I
look around again…and open it.

The
first thing that hits me is the stench of lemon – some kind of
thick air freshener. You can still smell out the alcohol underneath
it, though. I cough, hand over mouth.

Lint
floats in the air. I wave it all away and walk deeper. I remember
their policy: You can’t bring water, but you can bring beer.

It’s
so stupid.

Things
were on the floor: Batteries, a few empty bottles of Zima, paper
balls that people with weak ears put in their…ears.

The
deeper I go, the darker it gets. I swing my backpack around and zip
it open, taking out my tiny, red flashlight that you can attach to a
set of keys.

This
is exciting. I’ve always wanted to be an explorer. As a wee one I
had dreams of being an archaeologist – unlocking the mysteries of
the pyramids and digging up talking, still-rotting and
still-screaming Mayan skeleton heads. Better to go to the Pyramids of
Giza, though, surely.

But
we all know that Aliens built them, right? That they came down and
created us out of an all-female species to make slaves that dug up
their ever so precious gold – gold to save their dying planet. This
is all true. Hands down. It’s in the bible – just disfigured
after centuries of translations. The bible is a freak baby of a
thousand fathers.